The Mirror
by Princess Mee
Summary: How does one live with memories?


The Mirror

The Shire was not as he had left it, thought Frodo- but then again, nothing was… even himself.

He looked at the pale, thin shadow staring at him from the full-length mirror- although Frodo retained the look of a Hobbit of the Shire, there was yet this sense that he did not recognize who it was that stood before him.

Frodo lowered his eyes for a moment from the reflection- what he saw both frightened and pained him. He was almost always in pain these days- not even his beautiful garden tended by Sam, or the sweet laughter of little Elanor could make him whole again, he thought.

Willing himself to look once more into the mirror, he tried to focus on only parts of the image before him. His eyes scanned the left shoulder, which bore an ugly, contracted scar, a scar left by the poisonous blade of the Witch-King on that fateful night on Weathertop. Every year, on that same day, Frodo laid in his bed, unable to move, as if pinned down again by the thrust of that sword… his forehead damp, the scar livid and writhing. Helpless, every nerve and fiber of his body on fire, he could only whimper piteously while a worried Sam and Rosie look on…

Frodo found himself breathing heavily, but again, gazing upon his image, he settled on a mottled swath of skin along his right ribs. He felt for the gravelly texture, and recalled his near impaling at the hands of the cave troll in the Mines of Moria. If not for the mithril mail shirt that his dear Uncle Bilbo had given him only days before, he would have died instantly. The thought of death at that time had frightened him, but during those nights when sleep escaped him, when the agonies went on too long, he wished he would have.

Frodo knew that he had a long whip welt across his back, but he could not contort his body enough to see all of it. As the days turned colder and the air more damp, however, the scar seemed to contract and expand at will, causing Frodo great distress. He hugged himself tightly, as if for protection, and could only wait for the spasms to pass. In his mind's eye, he could see the face of whip's wielder- ugly, rotten, and stinking. Never had Frodo been subjected to such filth as when he was a prisoner in the tower of Cirith Ungol, lying naked on a heap of rags that he dared not venture a guess as to where they had come from or what they had been used for. The air reeked with foul and disgusting odors so much that Frodo found himself gagging. He would allow himself only shallow breaths, and although he was shaking violently on the inside, he tried to remain as still as possible. The orcs in the dark and dank room with him were clawing and hissing at each other over his "shiny" shirt, and Frodo could only hope that he would not become the next object of their attention. 

Time passed, and Frodo did not know how long he had lain there, whether it was hours or days… suddenly, he felt a jerk, and he was thrown onto his back, and he found himself staring up at a huge orc, with a slavering mouth and a threatening look in his eyes…

"Now for you, you little rat," and with that, the orc closed in upon him, smothering Frodo with both foul stench and clawing hands, and Frodo begged for release till all went black…

With a great effort, Frodo brought himself back from the terror of that time, refusing to go any further. The sweat ran off his forehead into his eyes, and the sting of it seemed to extricate him from the foul memory- he heard himself, saying over and over, as if chanting…

"I am safe, here in my home, in Bag End, with Sam and Rosie…"

This seemed to calm him, and as he stood there, the sun had sunk lower on the horizon sending a red cast through the small window of his room. This caused Frodo's body to almost glow and he stared at himself once more, this time reaching behind his neck. He felt a scaly, raised lesion that often ached, dull and low now, but at other times, with the sharpness of a barb that had gotten under the skin. Frodo actually remembered very little of that time in the spider Shelob's multi-cavernous lair, except for a mind-numbing dread and the feeling that he was being stalked, the creature waiting for him to make a wrong turn, caught like a fly in a spider's web… as the sting came, Frodo gasped once, and was lost in wave after wave of nausea, bringing him to his knees, then finally to unconsciousness. Not until he woke in the high tower of Cirith Ungol did he realize he was still alive- and that the spider had not devoured him. This brought on a tremendous shudder, and he felt himself falling. He thought that it was an orc that caught him before he hit the floor, but no orc would treat him like this… no, these were strong arms, but gentle in their ministrations, full of tenderness. He knew at once it was his dear Sam, come to save him again, even though he was home in Bag-End, and not in some filthy orc tower.

"Sam, it's you…" 

It was Sam, and as he looked at his Master, pity overtook him. His dear Mr. Frodo was on his knees, shaking violently, his hands clasped around his throat. The dark curls were wet and fell about his face, and Sam knew that he must work quickly. He lifted Frodo in his arms, and reflected that little Elanor would not have seemed lighter to carry than his Master at that moment. He brought Frodo to his bed by the window and laying him upon the linens, gently covered him with the downy comforter. Still trembling, Frodo seemed to find some comfort in his presence, and Sam rested beside him, stroking his hair and kissing his brow…

After some time had passed, Frodo opened his eyes. Initially panicking, he turned his head and there his gaze fell upon Sam, his dear Sam, who had fallen asleep beside him. He tried not to move for fear of waking Sam, but he found that he ached so much he simply had to.

"Sam…" he whispered, and with that, Sam awoke. He looked at Frodo and was relieved to see the strain had left his dear Master's face, and a slight flush had come to his cheeks, like the almost-ripe apples that he had picked that morning. Sam searched the sky-filled eyes, and found behind them a sort of melancholy, but brighter nonetheless for the rest.

"Hullo, Sam." said Frodo with such an innocence that it almost broke Sam's heart.

"Well, hullo to you as well! There's a fine how-do-you-do! I come looking to bring you down for your supper, and I find you, well, you know… Mr. Frodo, you were on the floor, crying," Sam said with a choke.

Frodo spoke now, his voice heavy and slow.

"Yes, Sam. I know. It's the memories. Sometimes I think to myself it would be better to face them, just confront them head on, but, alas, I have been through too much, Sam. Too much hurt and pain… I try, but…"

His voice trailed off, and Sam kept quiet for a moment. He knew the time since their return from destroying the Ring had been terribly hard for Frodo, almost worse than the journey itself. He saw how Frodo tried to join in on the daily doings of the Shire, but there was an awkwardness about him now, where once, long ago now it seemed, there had been total abandon. He had told Sam one evening as they rested that he could feel everyone staring at him whenever he went out, peering at him sideways, whispering to each other, pointing at his maimed hand. Sam had thought he was exaggerating till he noticed it himself one day while they were out for a brief walk. He gave a sigh, and looked at Frodo now, then gently said…

"C'mon now, Frodo dear, up we get! You're ever so late for supper, and Rosie's probably put Elanor to bed by now, and you know how she loves to see you before she closes her eyes for the night. Do you think you can make it out to the kitchen?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sure I can now, Sam. Thanks to you." Frodo's voice was as sweet now as ever, and it made Sam smile.

"Try not to worry too much about me," Frodo said, but he could tell as soon as he said this that it was a hollow and weak command. He did need worrying about, but how much longer could he put Sam through this? He had a wife now, and a child, and Frodo knew that there would be a Frodo-lad as well and many more children to follow. Sam was being torn in two and Frodo was getting so much worse… 

After partaking of only half of the fine supper Rosie had left warming in the oven for him (accompanied by a stern look from Sam for dessert), Frodo tiptoed into little Elanor's bedroom. He peered into her handmade crib, and watched as her tummy softly rose up and down. Her light eyelashes skimmed the surface of her skin, and her tousled golden-hair fell about the satin pillow underneath her head. He sighed and longed to hold her in his arms, but he could only bend down and give Elanor a kiss on her forehead. She stirred slightly, then cooed, and Frodo smiled and left as quietly as he could.

He padded through Bag-End, and finally found Sam in the master bath, filling the tub with steamy, hot water. The steam misted up the window and created a humid like atmosphere in the room, making it feel all the more warm and cozy.

"Now, Mr. Frodo, your bath water is drawn, and I suggest you get in before it turns cold! I can scrub your back for you and give your hair a good washing, and you'll be right as rain in no time!" Sam said this with such eagerness and joy that Frodo could not refuse him. They had been very close, as close at two friends could be, before their arduous journey, but since then, there was a bond between them that could never be broken. One heard whispers every now and then about poor Frodo never marrying, just like his Uncle Bilbo, and how odd it seemed that Sam and Rosie lived with him, but Frodo had been through too much to worry about the gossip of some lay-about Hobbits.

Suddenly, Frodo felt very tired. "Yes, Sam, a bath would be nice…" and with that, Frodo slipped quickly out of his clothes and into the water, letting it envelop him. He felt the blood circulating again through his body, the warmth of the water invading every pore, the strained muscles start to let go and relax. Then he felt Sam's strong hands massage his scalp and hair, and Frodo felt as if his head was no longer attached to his body, and he started to cry.

Frodo had no idea how long he had been in the bath, but when Sam had said it was time to get out, he did so with all the reluctance of a Hobbit child asked to give up his playtime and get ready for bed. He stood up slowly and let the water run off his body, the air hitting his skin raising little goose bumps. Sam threw a fluffy towel around him and rubbed him briskly, then another towel to dry Frodo's hair. Almost immediately, the limp, wet hair sprang into curls once again, and the hobbit's cheeks became flushed with new blood.

"Thank you, Sam," was all Frodo could manage. He felt light-headed, but strong again, somehow, like the water had washed away layers of grime and stain. Since his return from Mordor, Frodo often felt so dirty, both in body and soul, that no amount of scrubbing would ever make him clean again. But for today, for right now, he almost felt normal. He looked at Sam and said, "I want to look in the mirror again."

Sam took a step back and looked at his Master. "I don't think that's such a good idea, Mr. Frodo- you've had such a trying day already…"

"Oh, Sam, please. I need to, if you know what I mean."

With that, Sam led his Master to the full-length mirror, and he retreated a step or two into the corner. He watched Frodo with concern, but also pity, and a bit of hope. Whatever it was that Frodo was looking for in that mirror, Sam wanted him to find it.

Frodo stood there, and then dropped the towel from around his body. He shivered slightly, and raised his eyes to stare at his reflection. Frodo needed to look at himself, without cringing or turning away or crying out in pain… he wanted so much to re-claim himself, to find that young hobbit of the Shire again. He looked at the mutilated hand, his wounded body, and the scar around his neck from the chain that held the ring- yes, he saw everything. He also saw a Hobbit now, a hobbit with eyes the color of the sky on a bright summer's day and bright cheeks and lips like cherries. Frodo searched his face for some sign of recognition, and a vision came to him from out of the past. His young mother, cradling him close to her face, kissing his eyes gently, like the wings of a butterfly. He looked into her eyes, and there he found himself again, and tears came to him, not tears of despair now but of relief.

Sam still held his ground, but watched Frodo more intently now. His Master now looked as when Sam had first met him so long ago, after he had come to Bag-End to stay with dear old Bilbo. Quite different from other hobbits, Frodo had dark curls, a fair face, and a lean body, and his eyes had an almost imperceptible shadow to them, for he had seen hard times already at such a young age.

"Frodo, please wrap this around you now," said Sam, handing him his towel. "You'll catch a cold and Rosie would never let me hear the end of it!"

"I guess you're right, Sam. But Sam… I did it. I saw myself… MYSELF, Sam. Not the Ring bearer, not the saviour of Middle Earth, not even the failure that at the very end of his journey could not do what he had set out to do, but me, MYSELF. Maybe just a glimpse, but, yes, I was there…"

And Frodo wept now, deep and full. Sam rushed to him and held him, just as so many times he had held him on their long journey.

"C'mon now, Frodo dear. Into bed with you." Sam led him over once again to his bed, wrapping him up in the comforter. He watched as Frodo slowly closed his eyes and settled in, breathing slowly, peace coming into his face, and with a kiss on his forehead, Sam said goodnight to his Frodo, Frodo of the Shire once again…


End file.
